


In Other Words

by amfiguree



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-13
Updated: 2014-01-13
Packaged: 2018-01-08 15:06:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1134107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amfiguree/pseuds/amfiguree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Orlando is sick of a lot of things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Other Words

Viggo is an artist. He speaks in a language, he claims, that only other artists will appreciate, all soul music and abstract blotches of paint and murmured poetry that doesn’t rhyme or make sense.  
  
“In other words,” Viggo tries to explain, “I don’t mean to. But I can’t help it, and.” He shrugs, like he can’t find the words.  
  
Orlando lets him, and tries to be content with fleeting touches, and glances behind closed doors, and soft secrets that twine around and around his neck and never let go. But it’s difficult.  
  
And Orlando is sick of being the one who doesn’t understand.  
  
  
“In about an hour, it’ll be dark out,” Viggo says, as he busies himself with dinner. Orlando looks up from where he’s setting the table for two at Viggo’s tone. “I hope they make it here.”  
  
Orlando frowns. Today’s their sort-of anniversary, the first day they met on set, and he distinctly recalls telling Viggo he wants a quiet dinner, with just the both of them at the table. Annoyance threatens to overtake him when he realizes that Viggo is expecting company.  
  
“But the, ah—”  
  
“Sunlight’s gonna fade,” Viggo’s mumbling to himself, now. “They’ll probably be cold when they get here – starting to snow out. We have to set a couple places more at the table; I’ve cooked their favorite food and—”  
  
“Vig—”  
  
“—we, you and me, will divvy up the wine once they’re here.” Viggo looks pleased with himself, and he nods, stirring the pasta in the pot.  
  
Orlando looks down, and tries not to scream, tries to reign his frustration firmly in. “Who’s coming over?” he manages to ask, finally, when he’s sure he’s not going to accidentally-on-purpose wring Viggo’s neck.  
  
“Hmm?” Viggo glances up, and then starts when the doorbell rings. “They’re here already?” He sounds almost worried, and when he turns his eyes on Orlando, the brunette throws down the cutlery and goes to answer the door. Three women he’s never met in his life greet him on the other side.  
  
“Hi!” They’re too chirpy for Orlando’s liking, but he bites his lip, hard, and doesn’t say anything. Even manages, with iron control, a civil, un-pained smile. “Is Viggo in? He was expecting us tonight.”  
  
“Actually, we’re not really—”  
  
“That’s brilliant, darling,” the women are in the house before Orlando can shut the door.  
  
 _Like everything else here,_ Orlando watches the women brush past him, throwing their thick fur-coats over the couch, and he clenches his fists by his side, _tonight was supposed to be yours and mine, Vig,_ Orlando thinks, half bitterly, as he goes out to the garage to pull up three more chairs.  
  
When he gets back into the house, he’s irked to see that one of the guests has already seated herself beside Viggo, and once the other two grab their chairs from him, they proceed to fawn over the Viggo like they haven’t seen him in years.  
  
“Ant, Lei and Gwen, Orlando,” Viggo smiles, and Orlando’s chest tightens – _Viggo can use their nicknames but not his?_ – but he smiles back, and wills the emotion away as he seats himself morosely at the table, a near eternity between himself and his lover. “Old neighbors. I wouldn’t have survived America without them.”  
  
“In other words?” Orlando asks, wearily, because he can hear the favor in Viggo’s undertone.  
  
“They’re staying for a few nights.” Viggo’s smile is too bright, and Orlando blinks. He stands to get himself a plate, but by then everyone else has already begun eating. His stomach clenches, and suddenly Orlando’s not that hungry anymore. He mutters an excuse, and hurries upstairs at the slight inclination of Viggo’s head.  
  
And Orlando is sick of never being heard.  
  
  
“I love you,” Orlando hears himself saying, like a ridiculously doe-eyed puppy, groveling pathetically at the doorway of an owner who’s grown tired of it and wants to give it away.  
  
“Hmm?” Viggo says absently, staring at his latest mess of colors, paintbrush and palette in hand – the distortion of a pure bark of tree, “oh, I love you too, Orli.”   
  
Orlando knows Viggo never calls him ‘Orli’ when he’s being serious. “In other words, you’re painting,” he says, flatly, and Viggo turns only to give him a soft, hazy smile.  
  
And Orlando is sick of always being taken so lightly.  
  
  
Orlando buys Viggo a watch for his birthday, and he thinks he can see faint amusement twinkling in Viggo’s eyes. “It’s special,” Viggo murmurs, so quietly Orlando knows it’s meant for his ears alone, despite the number of guests milling around them. “Thank you.”  
  
“In other words?” Orlando prompts, gently, hoping to cajole a proper reaction from Viggo, because he’s not sure the man genuinely likes the present.  
  
Viggo shrugs, smiling, and presses a gentle kiss to the corner of Orlando’s mouth as he sweeps the younger man into a hug, slipping the watch discretely into his pocket.  
  
“You hate it,” Orlando sighs, as Viggo pulls away, and disappears into the crowd.  
  
And Orlando is sick of having to guess.  
  
  
When Orlando next meets up with Elijah, the young man seems as though he can hardly keep still. They enter a bar, and two shots of vodka are in front of them before Orlando can protest.  
  
“So how is he?” Elijah asks, as he tips back his glass, “how are you both?”  
  
“The truth is,” Orlando bites his lip, hard, and contemplates his answer, “the truth is if I said he was anything but perfect, I’d be lying.”  
  
“I know,” Elijah is grinning, and Orlando thinks he’s probably already had something to drink before they met – it _is_ one in the morning. “I can tell. You always tell the truth, because it’s written all over your face.”  
  
“I know how to lie!” Orlando protests, because Elijah has got it all wrong. Or maybe Orlando’s the one getting everything wrong – it doesn’t seem like anyone ever understands a word he’s saying.   
  
Elijah just giggles and pats his shoulder. _I lie to myself all the time. What’s once more?_ Orlando feels the burn of alcohol slide down his throat, and his drink still sits untouched on the table.   
  
He only realizes Elijah’s yelling after his head begins to throb from the noise. “Oy! Bartender!” Elijah’s hand is waving wildly midair, and the patrons he’s nearly spilling drinks over don’t look very happy.  
  
“Take mine,” Orlando nudges the glass towards Elijah, feeling a little ill, “and sit down, you arse.”  
  
Elijah ignores him, and now even the bartender looks pissed. “Oy! Oy, you!”  
  
“I told you you could have mine,” Orlando hisses, pulling Elijah back firmly. “Dammit, if I’d known you were already so far gone. Should’ve just sent you back to your hotel.”  
  
“Why aren’t you home with Vig?” Elijah asks, loudly, as he cradles Orlando’s drink to his chest. “You said he was _perfect_. Why aren’t you home being perfect together?”  
  
“He was perfect,” Orlando says darkly, but Elijah doesn’t seem to notice the different emphasis. Orlando sighs and shakes his head.  
  
He’s sick of never being understood.  
  
  
Orlando groans as he snakes his hand out from beneath the covers and pulls the phone receiver to his ear. “H’lo?”  
  
“We need to talk.”  
  
“Lij?” Orlando’s hungover mind tries to scrabble for any semblance of sense. “Spoke just last night.”  
  
“But I was out of my mind!” Elijah protests.  
  
“G’bye,” Orlando mutters, and lets the phone fall to the floor, ignoring the exasperated “Orli!” he can just barely hear as he rolls over and falls back asleep.  
  
Orlando’s sick of giving in.  
  
He’s sick of a lot of things.  
  
But now he’s going to do something about it.  
  
  
“It’s just. It’s so hard. I’m not sure I can.”  
  
“Just keep on loving me; it has to be enough.” The words are harsh, but the lines on Viggo’s face aren’t.  
  
“I don’t know how to make it enough anymore, Viggo,” Orlando says softly, but he still hates having to say it, because Viggo looks like he’s been dealt a slap to the face. “I’ve tried, but. I’m just.” Orlando shrugs, helplessly. He wants Viggo to say something.  
  
“I know I’m not the best lover around, and I know that I don’t always understand, but you’re not. You’re my inspiration, Orlando. Sometimes I just look at you and I think that I can’t take photography because no matter what I do I can’t capture the essence of you. And I can’t paint, because it never compares to what I see in you – it doesn’t come close. And I can’t sing, because all the soul I put into the words can’t describe half of what I feel for you. And you just make me feel like, even though I can’t do any of that, that I’m a better person for who I am, and. And maybe sometimes I take that for granted, but I just. I don’t know how to show you any other way. And I’m always. I just can’t. I’m not good with words. And. But.” Viggo knows he’s rambling, but he needs to convince Orlando to stay. Orlando has to stay.  
  
Orlando shakes his head, sadly. Because if after all this, that’s the only thing Viggo can think to say to him, then it really is over. It has to be. Orlando doesn’t want to have to lie to himself anymore.  
  
“In other words,” Viggo continues, suddenly, without any prompting, and Orlando stares.   
  
_Please,_ he thinks to himself, _please let this be true. Let him say what I want him to. Please, please, please. Be true._  
  
“In other words, I love you.”  
  
Orlando feels like he might burst out singing. He wants to do something crazy – like paint, the colors of incredulity and happiness and disbelief splayed out on a canvas like his soul laid bare; or write, page after page of scrawls of life and the lights at the end of the tunnel; or take photos, imprint today, this moment, _now_ in a glossy frame, so he’ll never forget the simplest, most beautiful verse of prose Viggo may ever come up with.  
  
And it doesn’t matter, anymore, that Viggo’s still an artist, and that he’ll still speak in the artist-way that Orlando can, and will, never understand.   
  
It’s enough, now. Those words are enough.


End file.
